Homefront (10 page)

“Okay.”

He hands me the cigarette and I tell
him about Jake. He listens, no interruptions, and when I finish he
says, “That’s right up my—look who you’re talkin’ to. Donny
Donaldson, doctor. Airborne! I was in the Army,” he
says.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t
know
. You only know what
you think you know, but you don’t. Understan’?”

“Sure.”

“Yeah, you’ll be upset like you are.
Nothin’ you can do about it ‘til you agree he’s right. Bad idea to
get married ‘cause of a war.”

“So I keep hearing.”

“Least you’re both on the same side!
Right? He against us bein’—? Well, he can’t say. Shouldn’t
say.”

“We’re on the same side.” A minivan
cuts in front of me and I pound the soundless horn. “It’s really
nothing. You’re right. I just want him to come home.”

Donny pats my thigh and I tense, but
he’s already pulled his hand away. “You think you’re goin’ to get
hit today by a truck?”

“What?”

“Drivin’. Think you’ll get
hit?”

“Well, no. Unless some
minivan—”

“Y’see? He don’t think he’ll get
killed, neither. But he might be worried about you. But you, you
know you’re a good driver. Sometimes, anyway—last intersection you
missed that light, and—”

I ask for another cigarette and he
tosses the pack on my lap.

“Yeah, now’s a good time to be
smokin’,” he says. “No better time than when your country’s at war.
I tell you what, though, and I say this sincerely. I mean it. You
payin’ attention?”

I say yes, yes, I’m
listening.

“I hope your boyfriend gets a better
homecomin’ than what they gave me.” He squeezes flat the filter,
separating the paper from the fibers. “You just hope. And you tell
him you love him, and when he comes home, you do somethin’ nice for
him. Give him a cake.”

“I will.”

“You give him that cake and you tell
him you love him and that he did good. You hear me? You give him a
goddamn cake.”

“Cake.” I cluck my tongue. “Got
it.”

Donny rips the cigarette from my
lips and flicks it out the window. “Let me out.”

“We’re a mile from the
site.”

“If I want to get out, you let me
out.” He digs in his pocket. “Don’t worry. I’m givin’ you the full
thirteen. I ain’t a thief.” He pulls out a crumpled ball of bills
and weeds out two fives and three ones, says, “Here,” and drops
them in my lap. “I shouldn’t even give it to you. Now stop the damn
car.”

No tip, today. “I didn’t mean
anything—”

“Don’t matter what you meant. Now
stop the goddamn car and let me out.”

By the time I pull over, the turnoff
to the construction zone is in sight. He gets out and smacks the
hood on his way across cross the street. “Go on,” he shouts, and
waves me off.

“
Shellie.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Thirteen dollars.”

“Does he want you back
tonight?”

“He didn’t say.”

“All righty. Head to Grocery
World.”

________

Lunchtime, which doesn’t come until
things slow down at three, I creep past the coffee shop to check on
the painting, but I can’t see through the thick and tinted
specials-painted windows. I park the cab and go inside and there it
is, still hanging. The one that used to hang beside it is gone.
That one, if I remember, had a seven-hundred-dollar price tag. I
check
Emily’s
tag—maybe the price has dropped?—but no, and so I think,
think, how to get twelve hundred dollars, but even a straight
seven-day work week wouldn’t do it soon enough, and neither would
being extra nice to fares. Or being nice, period. No one
tips.

I order a sandwich and a coffee and
sit on the couch where the sun shines through the window. On the
table in front of me, a half-played chess game. Brown is
winning.

The girl behind the counter opens a
jar of mayonnaise and I hear the knife stabbing around inside.
“Excuse me,” I say. “Is there any chance, maybe, that the price on
that painting—the one of the hou—the one with the snow—would go
down, some?”

She shrugs and brings me my order,
sweeping aside the chess game for space. “I’ll ask if he comes in,
but I haven’t seen him since he dropped it off.”

I would put it in the living room,
over the desk.

Or in the bedroom, where morning
light would hit it from the same angle as the painted
sunrise.

But mornings are dark when I leave,
and I spend so little time in the bedroom, anyway. The kitchen,
then, because it gets the best evening light on the wall, an orange
slant just above the back of the chair, and when summer comes in
full and daylight stays long, I’ll be home in time to catch
it.

________

“
Mia,” Shellie says.

It’s ten minutes before six and I’m
almost there, almost free for the day, and I’d thought maybe I
would close my eyes for a minute or two before gassing up. Water
splashes between rocks on the riverbank and crickets chirp from
their hiding spots in the grass. When Jake took me here, he’d
brought along his woobie—a camouflage poncho-liner we used as a
blanket—and some gas-station fried chicken packed in a
paper-towel-lined shoebox. “You said you’ve never been on a
picnic,” he said, shooing off a cricket that had landed close to
the box. “Which I don’t believe, anyway. You’re twenty-five and you
never had a picnic?” He pulled out two beers in cans, labels hidden
by cozies, and handed me a cold, soggy drumstick.

“Mia.”

“Yes?”

“Where you at?”

Tap. Taptap.
Rain. Again. “The river.”

“Donny wants you back where you
dropped him off.”

The clock says it’s five minutes
before six. “He asked for me specifically?”

“He surely did. I hope he’s not
scarin’ you, is he?”

“No, everything’s okay.”

“All righty. He’s a little funny
sometimes, but that’s just ‘cause of the war, you know. He’s a good
man, though. A decent man.”

In the background Paula says, “He
didn’t go to no Vietnay-um,” and Lenny says, “Now, you don’t know
that. Don’t go questionin’ a man’s serv—”

“Construction site, then gas up.”
Shellie releases her button.

Traffic is thick and rain-frantic
until I reach the black, lampless two-lane that takes me out of
town and into the suburbs. Reflected raccoon eyes pop up, then
disappear over the shoulder, waiting in the guardrail ditch. No
headlights in my rearview mirror, and after I pass I will the
raccoons to
go, go now!

The site’s clay lot is muddy. I park
and stare through thumping wipers at the trailer window until my
eyes burn, until the clock reads five after six and I should be on
my way home. My legs are numb and I’m tired. I pound the horn,
meaning only to pound something, anything, but someone has fixed it
and it blares,
hooooonk!
The door to the trailer opens and Donny sticks out
his head and yells, “It’s my angel, my angel of mercy, comin’ to
carry me home. Just a sec—I’ll be right out.”

________

“
Come in with me.”

“That’s okay. But
thanks.”

“Come on. For a minute.”

“I can’t. I have to get the cab
back.”

“Well, then, drop it off and come on
back.”

“I have to go home,” I
say.

“Why? Your husband ain’t
there.”

“He’s not my husband.”

“Husband, boyfriend.” He gestures
and spills beer on his thigh. “Goddamn it.” He wipes at it and
forgets it. “Nothin’s goin’ to happen. Just a drink.”

“Really, I—”

“Look. I ain’t goin’ to hurt you.
Did I ever touch you, or say somethin’ to you that made you think
different?”

“No.”

“No,” he says. He slides the beer
can on his thigh, back and forth. “And besides, my wife left
me.”

“But this morning—”

“This mornin’, what? I didn’t want
to tell you this mornin’. I’m tellin’ you now. She left me and now
there’s no one. Says she’s only stayin’ gone ‘til I move out. A
week is all I get. She’s at a man’s house. What do you think ‘bout
that?”

“That’s—I’m sorry.
Really.”

“She’s gone, and I’m alone. I got
nobody.”

“It’s just—I have to feed my
cat.”

He starts to say something, then
stops. He pulls at the tab on the top of his can,
click, click, click.
“You
said you got to feed your cat? That’s why you can’t come
over?”

“I have to feed him,” I say, and now
I wonder if I’m not lying. I don’t remember leaving food or water
this morning. Or yesterday. Poor baby, poor Chancey.

________

Shellie calculates my fare sheet and
I sit curled in the corner of the couch with her dog tucked in the
space between my stomach and thighs.

“Not bad today,” she
says.

“It’s ’cause she kept the car all
damn night,” Lenny says, pointing at me. “I missed two runs ‘cause
of her.”

“It’s only six forty,” I
say.

“Forty minutes could be a
twenty-dollar fare.”

The dog’s fur is soft, its skin warm
in the shed over-cooled by window-tucked air conditioners. I say,
“Did you miss a twenty dollar fare?”

“That ain’t the point.”

Paula puts out a cigarette. “Quit
givin’ her a hard time, you damn hypocrite. I remember one time you
didn’t bring the car back to me ‘til noon.”

“That was six years ago. It don’t
even count. I’m sick and tired of everyone givin’ her special
treatment. I know you got shit goin’ on, Mia, but you come in here
every mornin’ lookin’ all pissed off, you take days off, and you
don’t gas up right. Now, maybe this job ain’t for you. Me, I’m
done. You can’t take it? Quit.” He twists the cap on his head so
that the bill shades the back of his neck. “And Paula, you got to
stop jumpin’ in on everyone’s business and take care of your own.
Ain’t your kid goin’ to court for child support, now? I hear the
daddy ain’t goin’ to pay ‘til he gets another test done. Wouldn’t
need it if your kid didn’t bed down with everyone in the
projects.”

Shellie’s dog fidgets, restless, and
climbs over my legs and jumps off the couch. Shellie says, “C’mere,
Puddin’,” and picks him up, sets him on her lap.

“She only slept with the one guy,”
Paula says. “He’s lyin’ to get out of payin’, is all. We knew it
would happen.” She tiredly brushes her thin, white hair away from
her eyes. “You’re one to talk about sleepin’ around. Ain’t you
keepin’ all the whores in crack, all by yourself?”

“You best shut your mouth,
woman.”

“Why? You goin’ to hit me with that
infected dick of yours? Hell, we
all
need to be careful of that, make sure it stays
quarantined.” Charlie, who has been watching TV from the torn
leather recliner in front of the window, laughs. Paula lights
another cigarette.

“Now, now.” Shellie hands me the
sheet, and I give her too much of my money. “What’s the matter,
girl?” she says.

I tell her she’s been lovely, which
she has, and that I’m quitting.

________

Lights are on inside the house at 48
Maple, and a mud-crusted blue Jeep sits in front of the house on
the lawn. Past the sheers, faint gray shadows. I keep the car
running with the window open—the rain stopped sometime while I was
handing over my money—and smoke the cigarette Paula gave me on my
way out. “Good luck,” she said, and Shellie said, “Come back and
see us.”

It’s possible there is no wife. I
should have asked Shellie. I never saw a wife when I dropped him
off, never saw one when I picked him up, and he’s never used her
name.

I should go home, should roll down
the road toward the river, take a right on River Road and get a
coffee at the drive-through. The boy behind the window knows what I
like and gives me extra whipped cream topped with a
chocolate-coated espresso bean. But if I drive through tonight, it
will officially be the end of my day. I’ll have quit, officially,
and with no plans—official or otherwise—for the future. For
tomorrow.

Jobless, living on Jake’s income the
way Denise lives on William’s.

“Is that my angel?”

I barely hear him over the engine.
Donny wears shorts and a T-shirt and stands in his open doorway,
glass in hand. “Get in here,” he says. “And hurry up. They’re
talkin’ about a tornado.”

APRIL 16, WEDNESDAY
(EVENING)

His walkway slants and buckles, and
lukewarm puddles I can’t see in the dark cover my shoes and soak
through to my socks. Somewhere far off—over my apartment, maybe,
and Chancey doesn’t do well in storms—thunder murmurs.